Holding Up
by chappysmom
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John has rebuilt a life for himself, until one day, "holding up" has a whole new meaning. Can you say 'bank robbery?
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot ideas, everything else belongs to ACD and the BBC. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors, as always, are my own.

* * *

John looked at his watch. He had a couple hours before his shift started—plenty of time to grab something to eat and run some errands. Not that it would matter much if he was late. Just because he was working in the A&E on a Friday, didn't mean it wouldn't be boring. But then, he hadn't left London because he was looking for excitement.

No, after Sherlock died, he had just wanted a fresh start.

Well … '_wanted_' was perhaps too strong a word. 'Needed' was better. He had never imagined himself living anywhere but London, but it was impossible to escape Sherlock's ghost there. In the eighteen months they'd known each other, they had covered most (if not all) the city and Sherlock had left traces of himself everywhere. The memory of the way his coat blew in the wind at Tower Bridge. The gleam in his eye as they'd chased an actor across the stage at the Globe theater (in the middle of a performance). The snarl anytime they were near Westminster (and therefore Mycroft).

Everywhere John went, he was haunted, and finally, he'd realized he had two choices. Either stay in London and try to forget Sherlock, or leave the painful daily reminders behind. Given a choice of forgetting or remembering the most remarkable man he'd ever known, the choice was easy. Giving up London was nowhere near as difficult as giving up what little was left of Sherlock.

He hadn't gone too far, though. Just down to Kent—far enough for trees and fresh air, but close enough to get back easily on the rare occasions he needed to.

For the most part, his friends had been supportive. Mrs. Hudson had cried, but both she and Greg had approved. "Better for you to get away from all this," Greg had said—and considering the media nightmare they were both embroiled in, John knew the words had been heart-felt. He kept in touch with them, but it had been two years now and life in London seemed almost as distant a memory as Afghanistan.

No, he was happy where he was. (Or as happy as could be reasonably expected.) Madthwaite-by-the-Sea* was big enough to have its own hospital but small enough that you recognized most people. He rented a cottage with an ocean view, got a job at the hospital, and told himself that life was good.

At the very least, it had been worse.

The days after Sherlock's death, for example, had been dreadful. These days, it was all about getting through the days as easily as possible. Other than the occasional emergency coming into the A&E, it wasn't exciting, but compared to the dark days right after Sherlock jumped and took the life John had laboriously created with him? He wasn't complaining.

He stopped at Sammy's Shack for some fish and chips, chatting for a few minutes about the upcoming tourist season, and then headed for the bank. Most of his transactions were electronic, these days, but some things still required a physical trip. Luckily, his bank was conveniently close to the hospital, so he could easily walk there. He'd parked his car at the hospital lot earlier and was enjoying stretching his legs in the early Spring sunshine.

His cane tapped on the walk as he strode along. He had been carrying it for a year now. It didn't matter than he knew the stiffness was psychosomatic, his leg had simply been cranky ever since Sherlock had died. He didn't try to argue with it anymore; he was just grateful that the limp wasn't as bad as it had been right after Afghanistan. He could manage without the cane, but it made his life easier.

"John?"

He paused, looking up to see who was calling him. Surely it couldn't be … "Mycroft." What had brought Mycroft here, standing next to a black limousine? He almost never left London, and … here? Why would he be visiting John of all people? Oh, God, no…

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, his voice tight with strain.

"No, John, she's well," the man assured him quickly, taking a step forward. "I just needed to speak with you. Perhaps you could join me?"

John considered his options. He hadn't seen Mycroft since a week after the funeral, when he had told him that Sherlock had left him everything. It had not been a comfortable meeting, with the memory of harsh words and the wraith of Sherlock haunting the proceedings. But still, they had come to a truce of sorts, acknowledging that losing Sherlock was punishment enough for both of them. Both suffered enough guilt.

Glancing at his watch, John said, "I need to get to the bank. I only have twenty minutes before my shift starts and I need to get this transaction done today."

Mycroft frowned. "It's rather a confidential matter, John. My assistant could…."

"That won't work," John said, shaking his head. "They need my signature. You could join me if it's that urgent, or wait here. It should only take a couple minutes."

Mycroft sighed and nodded, stepping alongside him as he turned toward the bank. "How are you holding up, John? You look well."

John nodded politely. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. You?"

"The same." They nodded at each other for a moment, falling back on impersonal good manners to get past the awkward moment. John pulled the door open for the other man and then politely waited for a woman with two small children to come through. "Why, Dr. Hamish. Thank you so much," she said, maneuvering her push chair through the door.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Havelock. How's Jenny's arm, then?" He bent down to smile at the three-year old.

"Right as rain. You'd never know she'd broken it at all."

"That's children for you," he said. "They heal incredibly quickly."

Mrs. Havelock looked like she'd like to stay and chat, but glancing past him to see Mycroft waiting, she excused herself and John finally got through the door. "Sorry about that."

"No apologies necessary, John," Mycroft said as they walked to the counter for a deposit ticket. "But … Dr. Hamish?"

John shrugged, feeling sheepish. "I started going by my middle name when I moved here because, well …" Mycroft gave an understanding nod and John was relieved not to have to explain how the media frenzy following Sherlock's death had made it impossible to use his all-too-recognizable name. "Then my colleagues made me a name tag saying _Dr. Hamish_ instead of _Dr. Watson_. It's a little too 'Pediatric Medicine' for my taste, but they were being nice and it was … helpful, so it stuck."

Mycroft just nodded again, as John started to fill in his paperwork. The pen chained to the counter was dead (of course), and he fumbled in his jacket for his own, dropping it to the floor when he was jostled by a man coming in.

Bracing his cane, he bent to pick it up, then paused. Was that …?

"Mycroft?" he said quietly as he straightened. "I think there's a problem."

"I saw," the other man said, discreetly pulling out his phone, preparing to send a text. "I think it's best if we leave…"

"I don't think that's a good idea," a rough voice came from behind them as a masked man pulled Mycroft's phone out of his hand. "An observant gent like you? It would be a shame for you to miss anything."

He gave a sharp nod to the man who had brushed against John, and then there was a burst of gunfire and the bank was suddenly filled with screams. For a moment, John saw sand instead of parquet floor, but he shook himself. This was not the time for PTSD flashbacks, he told himself sternly as he let himself and Mycroft be pushed toward the center of the lobby.

Following instructions, he lay down on the floor (his leg, naturally, suddenly feeling perfectly fine). He couldn't help a grin at Mycroft's face as he got down on the floor for probably the first time since he was five, but then, John had always had a slightly manic response to being in danger.

He tried to look around, take stock of how many people were in the room. One disarmed security guard, three tellers and two office staff, still behind their desks, and, what, ten customers? He looked at Mycroft, calm as always. "So, what did you want to talk to me about, Mycroft? The benefits to online banking, perhaps?"

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. "Nothing like that, though I don't think this is really the time for our conversation now." He was scanning the room himself, taking stock in his Holmesian way of things like security cameras and exits, which John also noted.

"Do you think the tellers had a chance to alert the police?" he asked quietly, but the flashing lights outside the window answered his question for him. "Wonderful. This day is just shaping up beautifully."

"Not to worry, John. The bank robbers don't seem too worrying."

"Except that they started with gunfire rather than starting with a demand for money. It's not just a bank robbery, anymore, it's a hostage crisis, Mycroft. Anything could happen." John mentally ran through the tactics he had learned in the army as the robbers hurried to the window, shutting the blinds to block the view from the street.

"All right, everyone," said their spokesman. "Just stay calm and nobody will get hurt. The first thing we need to do is collect your phones. Michael Jackson, here, will come around for them. If you have anything that could be used as a weapon, we need those, too. If you try holding out on us, I promise it is _not_ going to go well, so no funny business."

John saw Mycroft grimace slightly as his fingers tightened on his umbrella. When the masked black man came around to him, he said, "You already have my phone. Do you need my umbrella, too? I don't see how it could possibly be used against you and your two friends, it's not like it's bulletproof."

"Just give it to me," the man practically grunted as he turned to John. "And your cane, too."

"But, I need that," John protested as he gave the man his phone. "It's a legitimate walking aid, not a silly prop. Because, I'm sorry, you know as well as I do that that's what your umbrella is, My … Mike."

He changed the name at the last minute at Mycroft's warning look. He obviously didn't want the bank robbers to know his name. John hadn't missed, though that he'd very clearly stated that the number of robbers and that there was a threat of bullets, so John assumed this was being transmitted somehow—likely through the umbrella, which was about to be taken away. "Look," he said, "I'm not trying to be difficult, but … if you're worried, what if you leave me the umbrella and take my cane?"

He caught an approving glance from Mycroft just as the leader came over. "Is there a problem here, Michael?"

The man quickly shook his head. "No, sir. Just, this man wanted to keep his cane and I said no, but he asked if he could keep the umbrella instead."

"And you told him no?"

"I was just about to, sir," Michael Jackson said meekly.

John was looking up, all innocent. "I'm honestly not trying to cause any trouble here, just … I need my cane. I just thought that since the umbrella was aluminum and not so heavy, it would be a fair compromise. It's not like I'm going to do anything stupid, I just…"

The leader was walking around him, and John tried to look innocent and frightened. He saw the man pause to look at the soles of his shoes and wondered if he could read the uneven wear like Sherlock would have. Then the man asked, "Old war wound?"

John didn't need Mycroft's slight eyebrow twitch to see that for the trap it was. "What? God no. I'm just a doctor. I hurt my leg years ago and it never completely recovered."

"Huh. Not much of a doctor then, are you?" The leader scowled at him for a minute, then said, "Okay, you can hang onto it _for now_, but if you cause _any_ trouble …"

There was a world of menace in his voice. John just nodded, looking grateful. "I won't. Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"Can't think why, since it doesn't look like you're walking anywhere for a while, _doctor_, judging by the police out there. How'd they get here so fast?"

John had his own ideas about that, but didn't feel like pointing out that at least one member of the British secret police had been sitting in a limo outside when they barged in. He was too busy trying to look harmless and innocent as the two robbers gave him and Mycroft another measuring look before moving on to the next hostage.

John looked over and met Mycroft's eyes, acknowledging the tiny tip of the head as he laid the saved umbrella between the two of them. At the very least it had a distress button or a tracker, he thought, but he was willing to guess at a microphone as well. Knowing Mycroft, it probably had a sword or a laser or some kind of Star Trek phaser, too. Sonic screwdriver, perhaps?

He glanced around at his fellow hostages. Everyone seemed nervous, but nobody looked to be in distress. No signs of panic or heart attacks. The robbers looked calm as they patrolled around the room, weapons at the ready.

The more he watched, the more he felt like this had been meant to be a hostage situation from the beginning, but why? What possible reason could there be? Unless there was one particular person they'd hoped to snare? But if so, they would have focused on him or her by now. If they had just wanted the money, they would have at least tried for a quick in and out approach instead of starting with gunfire. From Mycroft's comment before, it didn't sound like this had anything to do with either of them (which was a relief). After life with Sherlock Holmes, John automatically assumed that attacks were somehow directed towards him—especially if they happened the same day that Mycroft rolled into town—but that seemed not to be the case.

After a while, the robbers allowed their hostages to sit up and move to the center of the room, where it was easy to keep an eye on them. John tried not to be amused as Mycroft made a point of introducing himself ("I'm Mike, and was just in town to visit my old friend Hamish."). He then went around the room, asking everyone's names while John absently fiddled with the umbrella, keeping the handle close to the speakers.

"What do you suppose they're up to?" one of the tellers, Susie, asked. "They don't seem like they're after the cash."

"Safety deposit boxes," Mycroft said. "I assume they're through there? They keep heading in that direction, and one of them is always out of sight through that door."

Of course. "Which is why they started right off with a hostage ploy—they knew it would take time," John said.

"Exactly."

"How do you know all this, Dr. Hamish?" Mr. Keller asked quietly as the rest of the group leaned forward.

John shook his head. "I probably watch too much telly; I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

They had been there for an hour when the bank phones started to ring. Their current guard, called out, "Jagger! Phone."

The leader came out of the back room. "Finally," he said, striding forward. "You. Doctor. Let me see this famous limp of yours. Answer the phone."

John felt his eyebrows lifting. "Me?" he asked as he started to struggle to his feet, leaning on Mycroft's umbrella and then moving toward the robber with his usual limp, grateful that sitting on the floor had made him stiff since his leg (of course) felt perfectly fine. The man waved him over to the phone on the desk nearest him and John concentrated on looking as unassuming and calm as he could. "You're sure you want me?"

"I don't want them to ID my voice," he was told, "So you'll do the talking. Go ahead, answer it."

With a glance back at Mycroft and the others, John picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"_This is Sigerson, I'll be helping you through this hostage situation today. Who's this?_"

For a moment, the world spun and John was suddenly grateful for the umbrella's support. That voice … honey-drenched baritone that had haunted his dreams for two years now. He looked back at Mycroft, whose face held a blend of compassion and irritation. As if he knew the man on the other end of the phone, as if he knew … as if …

John swallowed hard as Jagger prodded his shoulder with his gun. Recalled to the matter at hand, he said, voice shaking slightly, "This … I'm Doctor Hamish, one of the customers."

"_Doctor Hamish_," the smooth voice repeated, and John thought he could hear the faintest hint of relief in the man's voice. "_It's good to talk to you. Is anybody hurt?_"

At the robber's nod, John said, "No, nobody's hurt."

"_Glad to hear it. I assume this call is being monitored, yes? Of course it is. How can we help you all today? Because we will do anything we have to get all of you out safely._"

John looked over at the man holding the gun. "What should I tell him?"

"Tell him we'll be in touch, and then hang up," he was told.

He obediently repeated this into the phone and then looked at the leader, who was staring at him. "You looked a little pale there, doctor. Is your leg bothering you?"

"No more than usual," John said, "But it's kind of you to ask. This is all just … intense. I'm nervous, is all."

"Not a good thing for a doctor; it doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

The man was testing for something, and John wished he knew what. "I'm not nervous in the emergency room, or when performing surgery or any other kind of medicine. That's what I do. But this? I've never been caught in a bank robbery before." And that was true, he thought. He'd been a hostage more times than he could remember, but never at a bank.

"Let me see your leg."

"What?"

"There's something about you … I don't think I trust you, doctor. I want proof that this so-called limp of yours is real. And if it isn't …" Jagger pointed the gun at John's knee. "I can change that."

#

(* And yes, I totally made up the name of this town.)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat in Mycroft's car and tried not to fidget. He wasn't sure how this was going to go, but the anticipation of seeing John again was making it impossible to sit still. For the last two years, he had focused on bringing down every inch of Moriarty's web and finally (finally!) the last piece had fallen and he was free to come back to life. To his life.

Mycroft had given him updates on John from time to time, and they had always been a reassuring, heartening reminder of the home he was striving to return to. Sherlock had been sad to hear John had moved out of London six months after his faked death, but he had told himself it was healthy that John was moving forward.

His biggest complaint was that the town John had moved to was too small to have much by way of CCTV, or a homeless network. He had been forced to rely on Mycroft for reports of his friend—especially since John had not updated his blog once since his final message declaring his faith in Sherlock. Still, the need for secrecy was over now and Sherlock wanted to come home … and that meant coming back to John. Sherlock had never had a sense of what a home was until he had become flatmates with that remarkably patient ex-army doctor who put up with _him_ while not putting up with his nonsense. He was a study of contradictions and loyalty and Sherlock had missed him terribly.

He had conceded, though, that his return would be a shock to John, and had gone along with Mycroft's insistence on coming. He still wasn't entirely sure why, other than because Mycroft wouldn't tell him where John was. (Madthwaite-on-the-sea? What kind of name was that? It sounded like something ludicrous from Yorkshire) Not that Sherlock couldn't have figured it out, but it was faster just letting his brother come—though Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure why this meeting was something his brother was willing to leave London for.

Oddly enough, after two years' absence, he found he didn't mind the time in his brother's company as much as he'd expected.

Now, though, they were so close to John, it was maddening. In fact, he could see John coming down the street now, leaning on his cane with each step. Not so bad a limp as when he'd met him, Sherlock noted, though his leg clearly troubled him. He leaned forward in his seat, straining to take in the details. John's hair was greyer than it had been. He was thinner, with more lines on his face, but he looked well. Not relaxed, entirely, not with that line of … not tension in his shoulders, but something like it. Wariness, perhaps.

Ah, but John had spotted Mycroft now as his brother shifted away from the car. That would explain the tension. Mycroft's plan was for him to usher John to the car and to get in behind him, just in case he took it in his head to bolt when he saw Sherlock waiting inside. (Even Sherlock could agree that introducing himself to John on the street would be verging on cruel. He didn't want his best friend to faint from shock—not that John would ever do that.)

John was shaking his head, and for a moment Sherlock was worried. If he wouldn't talk with Mycroft, how was Sherlock to reintroduce himself without making a scene? He wished again they had arrived in town before John had left for work. This would have been so much easier in a private setting. After two years of secret, ultra-covert work, being out in public still made him twitch.

He clenched his hands in his lap, fighting the impulse to jump out of the car as he saw John glance at his watch and gesture toward the bank. He'd left some transaction for the last minute, obviously, and needed to go now. Sherlock wanted to scream with frustration as the two of them turned toward the bank. It was only the cool gaze of Mycroft's PA from the front of the car that kept him in his place.

It was only two minutes later that everything fell apart.

Trying not to fidget like a seven year-old promised ice cream, he watched three men purposefully walk toward the bank doors. It was their walk—a march, almost—that caught his attention first as his brain catalogued the matching clothes, the knitted caps that were too warm for this early Spring day. It was as they paused to pull them down into face-covering masks that he saw the outline of rifles under their jackets.

He sat up. "The bank is being robbed!"

Anthea didn't even look up from her Blackberry. "They'll only be a few minutes, Mr. Holmes. Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not. They're being _robbed_, and John and Mycroft are inside." He had the door open just as an alarm on the dashboard blared and Anthea's phone vibrated in her hands.

"Distress signal," she reported, looking startled. "Sherlock, you can't…"

But he was already out of the car and sprinting across the pavement, only stopping when he heard gunfire inside the bank.

He fought the instinct to tear the door open and rush inside. He'd done far too much covert work the last two years to think that would be a good idea.

He snarled in frustration as he spun away from the door and stalked back to the car. So close, he was so _close_ to seeing and talking to John again, and the stupid man had to walk into a bank robbery?

Anthea was busily texting (of course) and the driver was on his radio, so it was only a matter of minutes before the first police car pulled up. (Sherlock grudgingly admitted that no matter how incompetent this lot might turn out to be, at least their response time was good.) He had his credentials from Mycroft out of his pocket before the first officer was even out of his seat.

"Henry Sigerson," he told him. "You've got a robbery in progress with an indefinite number of hostages, and I will tell you right now that I will be your negotiator with the robbers."

"Mr … Sigerson?" The officer looked stunned, and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Faster at driving than thinking, what else was new?"

"You're going to want to call this in. You're going to need reinforcements. And yes, I will be happy to talk to your superiors, but first you need to_get them here_." Sherlock turned back to Anthea. "What do you know?"

He conferred with her and Michaels (a security member of the British secret police and clearly a great deal more than just Mycroft's driver) as more police cars squealed up and they started cordoning off the pavement in front of the bank. She was just playing the broadcast from Mycroft's umbrella as the local DI came up.

"_You already have my phone. Do you need my umbrella, too? I don't see how it could possibly be used against you and your two friends, it's not like it's bulletproof._" Mycroft's voice was smooth and unruffled, and Sherlock had to admit that his brother had presence of mind. He caught Anthea's eyes and nodded. Three robbers with guns.

A moment later, John's voice, heard for the first time in two years. "But, I need that. It's a legitimate walking aid, not a silly prop. Because, I'm sorry, you know as well as I do that that's what your umbrella is, My … Mike."

Sherlock almost smiled, picturing the look Mycroft must have given his friend to keep him from using his full name, and then did smile as John charmed the thieves into letting him keep the umbrella. It was a relief to know that John's instincts remained as sharp as ever.

He tore himself away from the feed to talk to DI Barnes. "We unofficially have two men inside. They are hostages with the others, but will be our ace in the hole. We already know there are three robbers, armed with guns, though we don't yet know what kind they are. Are there any cameras inside the bank?"

He sighed as the man blinked, absorbing the new information, and Sherlock wondered if he should have spoken slower. (John had often told him his verbal deductions came at ultra-sonic speed, too fast for normal human hearing—a point he'd often reminded himself of these last two years of dealing with idiots without John's calming presence.)

Gratifyingly, this detective seemed slightly faster on the uptake than most and just nodded, calling over some technician to discuss camera feeds. "How did you get people inside," he wanted to know.

"Pure luck," Sherlock said, tactfully not saying how bad he thought that luck was. "Mr. Holmes was here to visit a friend who needed to conduct a transaction at apparently the worst possible time. It's thanks to them, though, that we have an audio feed from inside the bank."

He watched as the computer tech pulled up a video feed of the inside of the bank on a laptop, and after a long look at John, sitting calmly and unharmed next to Mycroft (also calm, of course), started to study the layout of the room. Of the skills he'd needed to learn these last two years, tactics and deployment were two of the most useful. He was mentally marking out the best lines of attack when Anthea called over. "We've got names. They're introducing themselves."

Sherlock leaned over the tech. "Can you sync the audio feed with the video?"

The man nodded and conferred with Anthea about frequencies and security firewalls while Sherlock went back to staring at the screen. The robbers didn't seem overly stressed, nor were they rummaging through cash drawers or trying to get into the vault. Assuming they hadn't actually been after the cash (this had become a hostage situation too quickly for that), what was left? Either confidential files or safety deposit boxes, he thought.

He saw another detective walking up, jamming the earth with every stride. Head of the force, then. He approached DI Barnes and demanded to know what was going on, and why hadn't they contacted the robbers yet?

Barnes stammered a bit and pointed in his direction, causing the man to round on Sherlock. In attitude, he could be brother to the chief superintendent who had gotten a broken nose from John on that last night two years ago—puffed up and self-important. "What's this I hear about you taking over my crime scene? Who the hell are you?"

"Henry Sigerson," Sherlock told him, drawing himself up to his full height and speaking in his plummiest, most public-school accent. There was no way on earth he was letting this man interfere, not with that belligerent thrust to the chin. "I've men inside, and will be talking to the robbers myself."

"Are you a trained negotiator, _Mr._ Sigerson?"

"I know people," he said with a smile at what he expected John's reaction would be to that. "I can also lead a tactical team, if necessary, and have any number of other skills that are unlikely to be relevant to this situation. However, I can guarantee that with my people in there, I _will_ be the one making contact."

"And who exactly are 'your' people, Mr. Sigerson?"

Sherlock held up his credentials again. "I believe that's above your pay grade, but I assure you I am the best man for the job. I know people just as I know you had a bacon sandwich at your desk for breakfast despite the fact that your cholesterol is too high. Your doctor reminded you of that fact just this week, but you eat because it lowers your stress which is high because of your strained marriage—you slept at the office last night, didn't you? You're also feeling threatened professionally as the younger crop of detectives come up behind you, a little faster, a little smarter, and always a threat to your position, so that the idea of an early retirement appeals to you, despite the fact that you enjoy the sense of power your position affords. Shall I go on? Or is that sufficient proof?"

He had delivered the entire speech quietly, leaning in so that only the detective heard him—he had learned some discretion these last two years—but the man still looked furious when he'd finished. Sherlock kept his face still, though. He wasn't going to risk this man taking charge of a scene where both John and Mycroft's lives were at stake. (He found that, when it came down to it, he felt strongly about anyone other than himself harming Mycroft.) And so he calmly, politely even, met the man's eyes and waited while he blustered himself to a stand-still, faced with Sherlock's implacable, hard-won patience.

It wasn't until the man finally wound down and figuratively bowed to Sherlock's superiority by slinking back to his car with a muttered, "Keep me informed," that Sherlock looked past him and, surprised, recognized Sally Donovan, standing and staring at him with a shock of her own.

He had heard that she'd been transferred out of London after the truth about Moriarty came to light, but he hadn't realized she was here, this close to John.

He met her gaze calmly, reminding himself that he was Henry Sigerson, that he did not know this woman (or care to), and was furthermore in disguise. With nothing more than an empty gaze, noting her recent financial troubles and lack of a support network, he turned away.

It was time to make a phone call.

He watched on the video feed as the phone rang in the bank, and then heard as the robber picked John to answer. He nodded at Anthea at the comment about voice recognition—the man's voice must be on record somewhere—but mostly he was trying to brace himself. His first conversation with John in two years, and it was going to be under false pretenses. Worse, he was sure Mycroft had not had time to prepare John … the sound of his voice was going to be a shock, and there was nothing he could do about it.

On the laptop screen, John was reaching for the phone. "_Hello?_"

"This is Sigerson," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice light, as if it wasn't the most important call he'd ever made in his life. "I'll be helping you through this hostage situation today. Who's this?"

There was a pause as John's video figure froze and glanced in Mycroft's direction, then John's voice came through, a little faint. "_This … I'm Doctor Hamish, one of the customers._"

Sherlock wondered at the name, but filed that away to consider later. For now he just said, "Doctor Hamish, it's good to talk to you. Is anybody hurt?"

(You, John? How badly have I hurt you? You have no idea how very, very good it is to talk to you, even if neither of us is using our real names.)

"_No, nobody's hurt._"

"Glad to hear it. I assume this call is being monitored, yes? Of course it is. How can we help you all today? Because we will do anything we have to get all of you out safely."

(What do I need to do to get you _out_ of there so you can scold me or punch me in the face like I know I deserve?)

There was a moment of static, and then an abrupt, "_We'll be in touch,_" and John was gone.

Sherlock stared at the muted screen, expecting to see John return to the others, but the bank robber appeared to be threatening him, as if he didn't trust him. "The sound," he snapped. "What are they saying?"

The tech tapped some keys just as the robber pointed a gun at John's leg. "_There's something about you … I don't think I trust you, doctor. I want proof that this so-called limp of yours is real. And if it isn't, I can change that._"

"Oh God, Doctor Hamish!" the tech said, staring at the screen in horror. "He stitched me up after a biking accident last month."

Sherlock felt a hard hand on his arm and turned his head just enough to see Sally Donovan glaring at him. "So, you tell me, _Sigerson_, is the doctor about to be shot?"

"I really don't know, detective," he said, eyes still fixed to the screen as John sat down in a chair and then slowly leaned over and rolled up his trouser leg. The robber leaned over to inspect his calf, seeing, as Sherlock knew, the scar from a compound fracture John had endured in school. He wasn't sure why the old wound chose to reassert itself upon John's shooting in Afghanistan, but he was relieved that John had physical proof of a cause for his psychosomatic limp.

Still, he didn't breathe until the man gave a grunt and waved John back toward the others.

The minute John was safely seated, Sally Donovan gave a tug to his arm. "I'd like to talk to you … _sir_. Right now."

#


	3. Chapter 3

John ignored the gasps behind him as the bank robber leveled his gun. He had known the fuss with the umbrella had raised suspicions, but right now, he could not care less about what this idiot with a gun thought about his credentials. John had just had a conversation with a ghost. Nothing else could possibly shake him.

And so he pulled over a chair, propped up Mycroft's umbrella on the edge of the desk and leaned over with perfectly steady hands to roll up his trouser leg.

Luckily for him, there had been an injury to his leg—just not recently. He'd broken it badly when he was 16 and still had the scars from the compound fracture. The leg had healed fine and after he'd finished therapy had never given him any trouble until he was shot in Afghanistan. Why his subconscious linked a wound to the shoulder to an ancient one on his leg, he had no idea, but it had been cranky ever since. Hence the limp.

Jagger leaned over to look at the scar and frowned. "Okay, _doctor_. Back with the others."

Keeping his head down, keeping quiet, keeping everything totally unmoving, still, neutral, John moved back to the circle of hostages on the floor and resumed his seat. He very deliberately did not look at Mycroft. He didn't look at anyone.

He had just spoken to a ghost.

He just sat, looking at the floor, knowing that the rest of the hostages were watching him, concerned.

Knowing that Mycroft was watching.

This probably explained why Mycroft was here, he thought. Come to break the news that they'd been lying to him these last two years, letting him think Sherlock was dead while he was obviously not.

It made being a hostage in the middle of a bank robbery seem so inconsequential.

He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at nothing, when Susie's concerned voice broke through the haze. "Dr. Hamish? Please, are you all right?"

John blinked up at her scared, young face and automatically said, "Yes, I'm fine."

There was a flicker of relief as he spoke (how long had she been trying to get his attention?), but she still looked worried. "Really? Because you look … what did they _say?_"

He glanced around at the circle of faces and felt a twinge of guilt for not helping ease the tension. "They wanted to know if anyone was hurt and what the robbers wanted. That was as far as we got." He looked over at Mycroft. "Sigerson—the negotiator—said they'll do whatever they have to to get us out safely."

Mycroft gave a brief nod, eyes intent on John's face while the others looked surprised. "That's all? But that's … that's not going to help us get out of here!"

"No, really, it's okay," John said. "They need to start by opening the lines of communication. You can't negotiate if you can't talk. The first conversation doesn't have to be much, it just needs to establish trust."

"Judging by the way that gun was pointed at you, it doesn't seem you did very well on that last point, doctor." Mr. Keller's voice was dry.

"He listened in on the phone call, Mr. Keller. That wasn't the problem. He just didn't believe my limp was real." John rubbed absently at his leg. It felt odd, like the absence of pain and stiffness was wrong somehow, rather than a relief. Though since that phone call, he had been suffering twinges. It seemed his leg was as confused as he was.

"But that doesn't make sense. Everybody knows you walk with a cane."

John smiled at Susie. "But the robbers don't know me—and not everybody who uses a cane actually needs a cane."

She dimpled and dropped a bashful nod, but Mr. Keller was still worrying. "How do you know so much about hostage situations?"

John looked at him, considering. He had never deliberately hidden who he was. He might be using his middle name, but he didn't lie. Nor was he ashamed of his past with Sherlock. He was definitely proud of his service with the army and the aid he'd given Scotland Yard over the years. Normally, a question like this, he would answer honestly (like he did everything else). He would casually mention that he'd spent time in the army and that would be that.

Except … this was a hostage situation and Jagger was already suspicious of him. It wasn't really the time to be boasting about his army-honed skills.

All this flashed through his head in an instant. "I told you, I watch a lot of telly. What can I say, I like mysteries. A man needs a little more for entertainment than Doctor Who."

Keller nodded, still looking uncertain, but accepting that answer while Susie said how much she loved Doctor Who and started talking about it with one of the other tellers.

Attention deflected, John took a breath and looked over at Mycroft, eyebrows raised. The other man reached over and laid his hand carefully over the umbrella handle. "I wanted to tell you, doctor."

"When? Today? Or for the last 25 and a half months?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft had the grace to look ashamed. "Both."

"But you knew?"

A small sigh. "Since just before the funeral."

Right. John really didn't want to talk about this right now. Apparently his best friend had lied to him in the worst possible way for the last two years, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He just had to get through this robbery and he would deal with Sherlock then.

Maybe by then he'll have decided whether he wanted to punch him or hug him.

#

Sherlock let Sally pull him away from the others. He had known this was going to happen. He could have bluffed away Sigerson's resemblance—it was amazing what a new hair color, contacts, and cheek inserts could do to your appearance—but the minute she saw John on the video, it was just too much coincidence. He knew he was going to have to come clean.

"Just who, exactly, are you, Mr. Sigerson?" she hissed.

Sherlock met her angry eyes calmly, just like he had dozens of other times. "I should think that would be obvious, Sally."

"But … you're dead!"

"Despite your best efforts, clearly not. Can we put this aside until we get the hostages out safely?"

"Since when do you care about hostages?" Her face was sharp with disgust. "And how do you get off, faking your own death when you're a wanted criminal?"

He shook his head. "Not true. My name was cleared, as I'm sure you remember. That was right about the time you were transferred out of London, if I recall correctly?"

"I'm not apologizing," she spat at him. "The evidence…"

"The evidence was flimsy at best. It merely gave you the opportunity you had been wanting for years, a chance to discredit me because I did your job better than you did. But that's hardly here nor there at the moment, is it? We have a bank being robbed, hostages to save, and this is not the time for this conversation."

She looked utterly stunned. "Not the … just who the hell do you think you are?"

"Who I _am_, is the person in _charge_," Sherlock said with a hiss, suddenly furious.

"Because you stole some poor bloke's credentials? Don't think I don't know that you used to do that to Lestrade all the time. I don't trust you, Sherlock Holmes, or whatever you're calling yourself. I don't know what you're doing here, but I will tell those people over there exactly who you are…"

Sherlock tossed his I.D. at her. "If you take a closer look, you will see that my credentials are, in fact, mine. They are not forged, stolen, nor otherwise false. The legality of my identity is recognized by the British government, as is my authority. Whether you like it or not, I am the highest-ranking official at this scene—outside the bank, at least—and you _will_ do as I say."

"Do as you … what do you know about hostage situations?"

He just gave her a small, shark-like smile. "More than I did two years ago, Sally. I think you'd be surprised at just how much I've expanded my skill set while hunting down Moriarty's crime ring—entirely legally, I might add, hence the credentials."

She looked stunned. "That's not possible. Who would trust you to do that?"

Sherlock just lifted an eyebrow. "You saw the proof that Moriarty was real, did you not? And that he was in fact a consulting criminal before his death? Well, tell me, did you really think that that would all just go away because the man killed himself? That the British government would just let that slide?"

"Well, no, but…"

"No. But." Sherlock just shook his head at her. "I have spent the two years of my after-life hunting down every link to his organization, and believe me, you have no-one better qualified than I to take down these bank robbers. Now, if you'll excuse me, among others, John Watson is trapped in that bank and I have no more time for this conversation."

He started to walk away, but she blocked him. "That's another thing. How the hell did he get involved? Is he working with you?"

Sherlock could only wish. Shaking his head, "No. I have not seen him since my so-called death two years ago. Until ten minutes ago, he had no idea I was alive."

Sally's eyes widened. "You really are a bastard, then, aren't you? Do you know what your death did to him?"

Rage washed over him. Rage at her stupidity, at this entire situation. "Oh, please, spare me the sob story, Sally. As if you care? Of _course_ I know, but what choice did I have? Once you had played into Moriarty's hands and forced me to that roof, there was nothing I could do. He had to believe I was dead. I had to _be_ dead. You let a madman inside your mind and helped spread his lies and that man in there is the one who paid the price, even more than I did."

"But … I didn't …" Sally stammered to a halt and then glanced toward the bank again. "So, if he's not working with you, then how…"

"Purely coincidence. I came down to tell him and was waiting for him to come out of the bank … and now he's trapped and it's up to me to get him out." Sherlock drew a quick, hard breath. "Believe me, Donovan, no matter how much you might want to punch me right now, you'll have to wait. John Watson deserves the first blow, don't you think? Though, if I were you, I'd be prepared to duck. It's entirely possible that, after he's struck me, he might turn on you … in the stress of the moment, you understand."

And, brushing past her, he headed back toward Anthea to find out what he had missed. A whisper of sound made him pause and say, without turning, "It would be a help if you did _not_ inform the press of my resurrection until after the hostages are free."

"I wasn't …" Her voice was indignant, self-righteous as always. "As if you care about the hostages."

He swung around again and took one, calm step toward her. "That's always been your problem, Donovan. Your insistence that your first judgment is the correct one—which it rarely is—and that people will never change. Our relationship got off to a rocky start years ago and you've been holding a grudge ever since. I'm not saying I wasn't partly to blame and certainly never cared enough to try to improve our working relationship, but how many times have I told you that you don't _observe_? I'm not the man I was when we met, and a large reason for that is the man sitting at gunpoint inside that bank. And even if John weren't one of them, even if my _brother_ weren't one of them, I would still do everything I could to get them all out safely. You can think what you like about my motivations, but this is what I _do_. So please, hold off your revelations of my former identity until everyone is safe."

Before she could protest her innocence or her good intentions or whatever, he turned away but then paused. "Also, John has been using his middle name since moving to this town. It seems unlikely that anyone knows him as my former flatmate. If you could exercise your discretion on his behalf, I would be grateful."

#

"_Hi, Greg? Don't hang up. It's me, Sally. You … I'm at a bank robbery here at Madthwaite-on-the-Sea and … you need to come._"

"_What? Sally? I've got my own job to do, despite your best efforts. I'm neck deep in this Adair sniper case. What do you need my help for, anyway?_"

"_It's not that I need your help. It's that … John Watson is one of the hostages and … Greg, I can't … Look, I can't say anything, but you just need to be here. Can you come?_"

_"John? (Sigh). I'll see what I can do._

#

Putting Sally out of his mind, Sherlock strode back toward the hive of action. "Anthea," he asked, "Any ID yet? Jagger's voice print?"

She glanced up from her Blackberry and gave a short nod. "Jeremy Smithson. He's been in prison the last five years for fraud and assault. He got out two months ago."

"Fraud? Interesting. Do we have the files?"

"They're coming now. The one going by Michael Jackson is Mike Coving, a former cellmate. The third one hasn't spoken yet, so nothing on him."

Sherlock studied the video monitor. "They seem to be spending a lot of time through that door. Do we know what's in there?"

Barnes stepped closer. "That's where the safety deposit boxes are."

"That doesn't … why would they do that? Unless … I need to see those files. Smithson aka Jagger is obviously after something in one of those boxes, something that either will prove his innocence—though I find that unlikely given his actions today—or something he wants to get his hands on before the rightful owner can. Find out who his most recent cellmate was, too."

He spun back around to stare at the screen. The man was just a common criminal, but he was putting John at risk. (And Mycroft.) That was unacceptable.

It was only a matter of minutes before Anthea handed him a laptop with all the data he needed loaded and ready. (He sniffed, even as he admired her efficiency. No wonder Mycroft was so lazy.) "Hmm. Nothing suspicious with his last cellmate, but the one before that? David Arnott? He shared a cell with Smithson for six months before he asked to be moved, and he grew up here. Barnes? Can you find out if David Arnott has a safety deposit box in this bank? A family member? Anthea, I'll need his file … ah, thank you."

He gave her a quick wink as the file appeared and skimmed it quickly. Arnott looked to be a man who'd gotten in over his head, involved in a high-profile burglary sixteen months ago. He and his confederates had all gone to jail but half of the stolen goods had never been recovered. Fine gems, he thought. Easily hidden. They wouldn't take up much room.

But would the man be stupid enough to stash them in a safe-deposit box under his own name? And then to tell his cellmate about it?

"Can we get Arnott on the phone?"

Anthea shook her head. "No. He's dead."

"When?"

"This morning."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he turned to stare at the bank. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a motive."

#


	4. Chapter 4

They'd been sitting on the floor for two hours now, and no further communication had been had with the outside world.

This should have worried him, John knew, but somehow it felt like a reprieve. Outside these walls was a living, breathing, lying Sherlock Holmes and, as much as he longed to see his best friend again, part of him was not ready. Might never be ready.

How many times over these long two years had he wished to talk to Sherlock? How often had he missed—actually _missed_—his careless, self-involved habits, his frustrating refusal to eat properly or rest during cases? There had even been times when he'd felt almost nostalgic about body parts in the crisper. (Well, _almost_.)

John wasn't stupid. He was well aware that—assuming they all got out of here—he was getting a precious gift. His dear friend wasn't actually dead, and since his name had been cleared over a year ago, there was presumably no reason why they couldn't pick up their friendship where they had left off. He even wondered if 221B was still available.

But there was also the part of him that was furious. Not only had Sherlock lied to him, but he'd done so in the worst possible way—letting John mourn for two years. No matter what their acquaintances might have thought, he and Sherlock had never been a couple, but they had been closer than brothers. Sherlock had given John a reason to get up in the mornings, had given him purpose for his days. When Sherlock died, he had taken all that with him—it wasn't like John could continue working with Scotland Yard. Even with Lestrade reinstated, crime scene consulting just wasn't an option.

No, leaving London had been his only real choice. He had rebuilt his life here and now … he was almost grateful for a chance to sit quietly and_think_. The minute he stepped foot through the doors, everything was going to change again.

"Doctor! Come here, it's time for another call."

John looked up and nodded, heaving himself to his feet, legitimately limping this time since his leg had fallen asleep. He didn't make eye contact with anyone as he made his way across the room to the same desk as before, where Jagger was waiting. "Decided what you'd like to ask for, then?"

"Don't get cheeky, doctor. Tell them we want safe transport out of here—an unmarked van, with no trackers, no bugs, nobody following … just a good van with a full tank of petrol."

John nodded and picked up the phone, then paused. What number was he supposed to dial?

But, no. Sigerson's voice came through without any further effort. "_Doctor Hamish, I presume? How can we help you?_"

John swallowed again at the familiar voice and focused on the job at hand. "They'd like an unmarked van. No trackers or bugs, no-one following … just a full tank of petrol and safe passage out."

"_That seems reasonable enough. Anything else?_"

John glanced at Jagger, listening on his extension, who shook his head. "No, that's it for now." His fingers tightened on the receiver. It didn't matter that this was the worst possible time, but he wanted to say … something … to the man who'd been—who might still be—his best friend. He wanted to hear that honey-drenched baritone telling him that somehow, everything was going to be fine.

"_Doctor_," Sherlock's … no, Sigerson's voice came down the line. "_Is there anyone there with any medical conditions we should be aware of? Heart conditions? Diabetes? Low blood sugar?_"

John looked back at his fellow hostages. He had asked earlier, but nobody had said anything. John was certain Sherlock had to know that, since he presumably had Mycroft's people working on this, so why would he ask?

"I don't know, hold on."

He covered the receiver with his hand and looked at Jagger. "I don't know if anyone has special medical needs, but it's been hours. If we're going to be here much longer, some food wouldn't hurt. Water, too, since it's getting warm now they've turned off the power. People will start getting dehydrated."

"And you're an expert on hostage care and feeding now, doctor?"

John met the man's glare calmly. "Not at all, but if your hostages start getting ill, you lose your bargaining chips. If you show some basic human concern, it can buy you good will. It's your call, but as a doctor, I can tell you that your hostages are going to need some kind of nourishment soon."

He kept his face calm while the man thought it over. Jagger clearly didn't want to open the doors, but he wasn't entirely stupid, either. Nor did he seem deliberately cruel. Hard and not to be messed with, yes. Angry, definitely, but that's still something that can be worked with, as long as he felt he was in control.

"Fine," Jagger said finally. "Pizza and water. One delivery person. And get us that van!"

John repeated the instructions and ended the call, turning in his chair to face Jagger, uncertain whether he should head back to the others or not.

He found Jagger staring at him. "There's something about you, _doctor_. You seem familiar to me, but I can't put my finger on it."

Yeah, John was used to that. "Maybe I treated you in the A&E at some point? I've been there for almost two years, now."

"No, that's not it. Ever been in prison?"

John didn't have to fake his look of surprise. "What? God, no. I had to bail my sister out a couple times when she was picked up for being drunk and disorderly, but … no. Never in prison."

He was starting to wonder how long the pizza was going to take. Even if he and Sherlock had never met the man in front of him, they had had quite a reputation (and he could only imagine how people in prison talked about Sherlock). Jagger was going to piece this together at some point, and this was going to blow up in his face unless he could come up with a distraction or he told the truth.

Facing the man's stare, he was trying to figure out the best thing to do, because he had to do something before the thoughts in Jagger's head tumbled into place. He didn't dare look at Mycroft for a hint, and volunteering the information that he used to work with the police was really not a good idea, he was quite sure of that, but he was surrounded by men with guns and a room full of civilians and how was he supposed to derail this train of thought before things went pear-shaped and everything went to hell?

He was thinking so hard, he jumped when the phone rang. At Jagger's wave, he answered it. "_We have your water here at the door, and the pizza should be here in ten minutes_," came Sherlock's voice. John couldn't help a sigh of relief. His old friend had to be watching as well as listening to know how suspicious Jagger was getting.

"Do we want to bring the water in now, or wait for the pizza?" John asked.

Jagger just looked frustrated. "We'll wait. I don't want to open that door any more than I have to."

John relayed that. "What about the van?"

"_An hour_."

"How long does it take to get an unmarked van?" Jagger wanted to know, as he slammed down his phone. "You just sit there, doctor. I'm not done with you yet. Watch him, Sting! Jackson—come over here."

The third robber came to stand next to John, gun at the ready while the other two robbers backed toward a corner. John could see them glancing at him as they talked and just wished he knew what he'd done to cause Jagger's suspicions. If it was too-familiar face from far too many news articles, there was nothing he could do, but had he done or said something?

He looked back at Mycroft, still looking elegant and composed with his long legs stretched out on the floor and crossed at the ankle. He was watching John with a slight crinkle in his forehead—the concerned one that usually came out when Sherlock was being difficult. John gave the tiniest shrug—he really had no idea what was going on.

Still, a life-and-death situation was really just what he needed to get his mind off Sherlock's existence at the end of the phone line.

Just then, an enlightened look of a memory emerging spread on Jagger's face as he turned toward John. Seeing the wicked gleam to the man's smile, John took a deep breath.

Yes, clearly, Sherlock was back. Nobody else could make his life this insane.

#

Sherlock put down the phone and gave Barnes a nod. Van. Pizza. Water. On their way. Excellent.

"Mr. Sigerson." Anthea's voice was calm as always, but Sherlock heard the urgent edge. "We may have a problem."

"What is it?"

"Robber number two, Mike Coving. Does the name ring a bell? He was put in jail on evidence found by Sherlock Holmes, you might remember the case?"

Sherlock blinked. Now that she mentioned it, he did. The man had murdered his brother-in-law in a rage of anger because he'd been having an affair and lying about it.

"He might recognize Dr. Watson."

"Worse," Sherlock said, remembering the case. "John is in danger. I need to get in there."

He looked blindly around the scene, mind reeling at the thought of John being in danger because of him … again. Why hadn't Mycroft kept him from going into that bank?

He looked back at the video footage. John was still sitting in the desk chair by the phone while Smithson loomed over him like an angry bear. Twisting the volume knob, he heard, "_There's something about you, doctor. You seem familiar to me, but I can't put my finger on it._"

Damn it. The man was getting more suspicious of John by the moment. He needed to distract him. Picking up the phone, he called back with a question about the food delivery, but he barely heard the words, he was so busy watching the video footage, trying to parse whether his distraction had worked.

For a few minutes, it looked like it had. Smithson left John guarded by the third (still unknown) robber while he pulled Coving aside to begin a heated conversation.

This was going to go very badly, very quickly.

Just then, the pizzas arrived and Sherlock hurried over to the delivery boy, snatching the cap from his head and practically dragging the jacket from his protesting shoulders.

"Sigerson! What are you doing?"

"I need to get in there," he said, shrugging into the boy's jacket.

"No, we need you out here," Barnes said.

Sally just looked disgusted. "You're going to get those people killed."

"There you go again, Donovan, putting protocol ahead of people." Sherlock waved at the monitor. "They're just about to identify John. I have to get in there."

"Wait, John? John who?" asked Barnes. "You were so insistent about being in charge, and now you're going inside? That's unprofessional and will just put you and every person in that bank at risk."

"John Watson. Doctor John Hamish Watson," Sherlock said, hating the desperation he heard in his own voice. "They're going to figure out who he is and blame him for something he had no part in. They're going to _hurt him_, and I am the only one who knows enough to get them to stop."

"What? I don't understand."

Sherlock felt like clawing his own eyes out with despair … and would, too, if by being blind he could just make other people _see_. He took a deep breath and let it explode in a tightly controlled tone. "Mike Coving was sent to prison for the violent murder of his brother-in-law-enraged, not so much because he had cheated on his sister, but because he had lied about it. He was more upset about the deception than the actual affair. John wasn't even involved in that case—he was at some medical conference—but it won't matter. Coving will just see this as a deception. I _have_ to get in there."

He could see comprehension beginning to dawn on Sally's face, but Barnes still looked confused. Why were people so dense? "Dr. Hamish!," Sherlock practically shouted at the man. "If I don't get in there, they're going to hurt him."

"Um, sirs?" The tech was staring at the video. "You need to see this."

Sherlock took only one glance and, while the others stared in horror, grabbed the pile of pizzas and ran.

#

Jagger came stalking back to John. "Doctor Hamish, was it?"

He reached into John's pocket and pulled out his half-written deposit ticket. The look on his face was infuriated and triumphant as he said, "The check says John Watson."

John nodded calmly, nerves running smoothly like oiled steel now he was facing a crisis. "Doctor John _Hamish_ Watson, yes."

Jagger whipped his gun around, hitting John in the head with the butt. "Don't lie to me, Dr. _Watson_? Why are you here?"

John managed to hold on to the chair, but his ears rang to the sound of screams from his fellow hostages. "Like you can see for yourself, I'm just here to make a deposit. I told you, I work at St. Clares up the road, and have for almost two years now. I'm just a customer, like everybody else."

Jagger leaned forward, face contorted with anger. "You expect me to believe that? Then why lie about your name?"

"I didn't," John said, fighting to focus his eyes. "I just started using my middle name when I moved here. It was easier. I was just trying to start over. It's not like it was a secret."

Jagger laughed. "Not a secret? You haven't told anybody your real name in two years? What do you think a secret _is_, John?"

"Deliberate," John said. "With ulterior motives, or something that needs to be hidden. I still bank under my full name, my co-workers know. My friends know. It's not something I lied about. I just didn't advertise my old life, okay? That's what starting fresh is all about."

Jackson stepped forward. "Jagger, what are you doing? We said nobody would get hurt!"

Unnoticed by the bank robbers, there was a knock at the door.

"He's not hurt, Jackson. Not really. But he's been lying all this time, and I want to know why."

"I know lots of people who use their middle names, Jagger, that doesn't mean anything."

Jagger glared at him. "Jackson? Remember that detective a couple years ago? The one who everybody said was a fraud? The one who sent you to prison?"

Oh no, John thought. This was just about to get very, very bad.

"Sherlock Holmes," Jackson said, coming over to stare at John, a bitter twist to his lips. "What about him?"

"What was the name of his assistant?" Jagger asked, practically spitting the words out.

"Watson … Are you saying … _This guy_?" John tried not to flinch as Jackson leaned over to stare at him, a light in his eye that made John nervous. "You're right … it is him!"

He pulled back his own gun and slammed the end into John's stomach. He almost pitched out of the chair at the force of it, as if the wind rushing out of his mouth had shot the chair backwards. Hard hands caught him, though, and thrust him back as he fought for air.

Typical, he thought. He'd been having a perfectly normal day, and then the Holmes brothers rolled into town, and everything went to hell.

#


	5. Chapter 5

Beyond the buzzing in his head John could hear orders being barked and voices raised in strained, frightened protest. He felt his arms being pulled back and struggled as he was pulled upright, away from his clenched, aching stomach. Lengths of something wrapped around him, around his wrists, tying him to the chair, and he was secured before the black dots in his eyes had cleared enough for him to see.

He gave his head a shake, trying to settle the muddled thoughts into some sort of order and then immediately regretted it. It had been over two years since he'd been abducted or tied up, he thought, and had to suppress a giggle. This was so like Sherlock. If it weren't for the blood he felt trickling down the side of his face, he'd almost think the man had planned this as some crazy kind of reunion celebration.

He looked over to his fellow hostages and was almost touched to see them irate and worried on his behalf. They needed to calm down, though, or somebody was going to get hurt. Or, somebody else, since he supposed that having been pistol-whipped and punched in the stomach qualified, though he'd had worse. Did it still count as pistol-whipping when it was a rifle?

Get hold of yourself, Watson, he told himself firmly. He just wished he knew why this had all gone south. Five minutes ago he had been just one hostage among many, and now he and he alone was aching and tied to a chair. Did he have a gift for this, or what? He should teach a class: "What to Do When You're Kidnapped" or "Get Kidnapped with Flair."

He gave his head another gentle shake and winced—that was a mistake. He looked over to Mycroft and the other hostages as the three robbers stood and argued in front of him.

The pounding he heard wasn't just in his head, he realized. It was at the door. Pizza, he thought, and I bet they won't give me any now. At least I ate before I got here.

"Door," he said.

None of them heard him. None of the robbers were watching the hostages, either, but except for Mycroft (cool as always), they all looked too frightened to try anything—which was just as well, John thought. He didn't want anybody to get hurt. Else, that is. Anybody else. Though this barely counted. How many times had he been hit in the head, anyway? Over the years? It was just the one time today, he was pretty sure.

Christ. He definitely had a concussion and it was not helping. How was he supposed to get them out of this if he couldn't hold two thoughts in his head long enough to rub them together? Not that you could rub thoughts, of course. He wondered what they would feel like … slippery little devils, no doubt. Easy to drop or tangle—no wonder people rubbed them instead of trying to tie them … oh, this thinking thing was really not going well.

He was as surprised as anybody when help came from an unexpected source.

"If you gentlemen are finished beating my friend, you might want to consider answering the door," came Mycroft's voice, smooth and strong. "The authorities outside will worry, otherwise."

Jagger turned to stare at Mycroft. "Your friend?"

Mycroft inclined his head. "Indeed. We've known each other for years, ever since he met my brother."

What the hell was Mycroft doing? He was going to get himself hurt, and John didn't like the gleam that he saw in the other man's eyes as he stared at Mycroft. "Sherlock Holmes was your brother?"

Mycroft gave another nod, but the next person to speak was Mr. Keller. "What's going on here? I don't understand. What did Dr. Hamish do to deserve being tied up?"

"He helped send me to prison," Jackson said with a snarl, taking a threatening step forward.

"No, I didn't. Never seen you before," John said, trying to distract them, trying not to slur his words so that he would sound like he knew what he was talking about when his grasp on what was going on was getting fuzzier by the moment. He'd forgotten how much a concussion could hurt.

"Don't lie to me! You helped with all his cases."

John just stopped himself from shaking his fragile head. "Not all of them. There were plenty he solved while I was at work or out of town. I honestly have no idea who you are … of course, the mask doesn't help."

The minute the words were out of his mouth, he wished them unsaid. It wasn't safe for anybody to see the faces of these men, but … too late. Jackson tore his mask off and leaned forward. "You're saying you don't recognize me, Watson?"

John just looked at him, blinking his still-blurry eyes and said, "No, I'm sorry. The man kept secrets, you know. He didn't tell me everything."

"What the hell is going on?" Mr. Keller burst out. "Dr. Hamish? What is he talking about? Why is he calling you that?"

"My full name is John Hamish Watson, Mr. Keller. Before he died, I shared a flat with Sherlock Holmes who apparently sent this mail to jail. He thinks I was involved. But really, I have no idea who he is."

Jagger meanwhile was still looming over Mycroft. "You said 'brother'?"

"Indeed. Surely it can't come as a complete surprise that Sherlock Holmes had a family?"

"And what are you doing here?"

"Just visiting my friend John, of course. What else?"

While their attention was distracted, John twisted his fingers up toward the knots of the … phone cord? If he could just get himself free, or even loosen the bonds enough that he could get out when there was an opportunity … Though the way Sting kept looking at him made him nervous.

There was another, more insistent knock at the door, and suddenly the bank fell into silence.

Jagger stared down at Mycroft a minute longer, and then turned back to the door, looking uncertain even as his hands tightened on his gun.

"It's the pizza," John reminded him. "They said ten minutes, remember?"

A voice called from outside, "I'm here with your food. Can I come in?"

Sigerson's voice. Of course it was. Because naturally Sherlock Holmes would waltz right into a situation this fraught with men who have every reason to shoot him … or to shoot his best friend and brother in front of him to make a point.

Feeling dizzy, John just wanted to close his eyes.

One thing was sure, with Sherlock back from the dead, it wouldn't be boring.

And, despite the nausea curling in his bruised stomach, he couldn't help but smile.

#

Hands full of pizza boxes, Sherlock ran for the bank. How had the situation gotten so out of control? Why had Smithson recognized John?

"Sherlock."

He stopped short, just managing to keep the stack of pizzas from falling to the ground. "Get out of my way, Anthea."

"Of course, but not until you've put this on." She held out a bullet-proof vest. "It's not negotiable."

He looked past her at the bank, eyes burning as they tried to see through the brick façade, but he knew she would be implacable. He handed Michaels the boxes, flung the delivery boy's jacket to the ground, and grabbed the vest from her hands as he heard Sally behind him. "You can't go in there!"

"You're not stopping me, Donovan," he snapped as he pulled his own jacket back on over the vest. With a sigh, he took the earpiece from her as well, and jammed it into his ear, twisting it in so it couldn't be seen beneath his hair. "Michaels, we've got our people ready?"

"At the word, sir."

Sherlock nodded, took back the boxes and without a word to anyone, sprinted to the door.

He could hear yelling inside as he knocked and paused, listening, before trying again. In his ear, he could hear Anthea's voice, telling him that John's old identity was very definitely out in the open and the bank robbers apparently remembered Sherlock all too well.

From inside, he could hear Mycroft's voice, "Surely it can't come as a complete surprise that Sherlock Holmes had a family?"

Wasn't that just like him, making everything about himself, Sherlock thought as he pounded on the door again. "I'm here with your food. Can I come in?"

There was a pause, and then the door was cautiously opened and he was waved in.

In the minutes since he had watched the video feed, the situation inside the bank had deteriorated greatly. John was bleeding from the head and tied (phone cord) to a (basic, swivel office) chair. Coving was standing behind him, mask off, holding his gun steady at the back of John's head. To the right, the hostages were gathered on the floor, with Smithson standing behind Mycroft as he, too, trained his gun on Sherlock. The third, unidentified robber was in the corner, where he had the best view of the room, as well as the most cover.

That made him the most dangerous, Sherlock thought, as he edged over to the nearest table to put down his pile of pizzas. "You all must be hungry. I know how hard waiting can be. The van should be here in fifteen minutes."

"Good," Smithson said, "I hope it's big enough for five."

Sherlock tried to look innocent as Sting came over to pat him down. "I thought there were just the three of you?"

"Oh, we'll be taking two hostages with us … just until we're sure we're safe, you understand."

"That wasn't part of the deal," Sherlock said calmly.

"Situations change," Smithson said, voice hard. "It turns out that one of my men is interested in two of our hostages and wants them to come along."

Sherlock glanced again at John. "Dr. Hamish, I presume? Are you all right?"

"Mr. Sigerson," John said without opening his eyes, voice slightly blurred. "I'm tolerably well. Pleasant weather we're having."

Sherlock didn't show the smile that threatened to bubble up. Instead he turned back to Jagger, eyes skimming past his brother, calmly sitting on the floor. "This man is injured. He requires medical care."

"No," Jagger said. "But we'll look after him when we leave."

"Not negotiable. You bargained for a van for you and your team—nothing was said of additional hostages."

"Plans change, Sigerson. I'll tell you what I will do, though. I'll let all those other people go, right now. But Watson here, and Mr. Holmes over there, are staying." Jagger leveled his gun at Sherlock. "And so are you."

#

Greg Lestrade pulled his car alongside the crime scene with the ease of long practice. He still wasn't sure why he was here, but Sally had said John Watson was in trouble and … he couldn't help himself. He'd left his current team working on the Adair shooting and … here he was. It felt like an old instinct reasserting itself, reminding him of the days when he'd been chivied along by Sherlock Holmes.

His career had barely survived the man's death, and while Greg had always been confident of his work, he was sure Sherlock's brother had had a hand in keeping his career from sinking out of sight. If there had been a public scape-goat for the affair, it had been the Chief Superintendent (whose black eyes and broken nose had never failed to make Greg smile—John Watson's last hurrah before being broken by the thud of Sherlock's body hitting the pavement).

Now, while he might be held to a slightly higher level than his fellow DIs, at least he still had his job. Unlike Donovan, who'd been essentially exiled from the city for her own part in that day's events.

Walking over to the command post, eyeing the bank and the surrounding area, noting a pizza delivery at the door. He still wondered what had made Sally so insistent he come. He might have come for John, anyway, but that hadn't been it. She'd been urgent about something else. Something she couldn't tell him over the phone.

Holding up his badge, he ducked under the tape and blinked in surprise at a familiar-looking woman wielding a Blackberry. He touched her on the arm. "Is Mr. Holmes here?"

Glancing up from her screen, she gave a short nod and then pointed him to a group clustered around a laptop—a group that included Sally Donovan. He gave a brief, polite smile and moved to join them. "Donovan? What's going on?"

She almost looked relieved when she turned to see him. "It's a disaster. We've got hostages in the bank, three gunmen, and apparently one of them holds a grudge against the Freak and is taking it out on Watson. But that's not all."

He couldn't help it—his eyes were drawn to the familiar figure tied to a chair, and blinked when he heard an even more familiar voice asked, "_Dr. Hamish, I presume?_"

#

Sherlock looked around the room. The hostages on the floor were looking frayed and emotional, several—like that young teller—looked on the verge of hysterics. Coving was glaring at John as if thinking of ways to make him hurt. Even if Sherlock hadn't been inclined to get the innocent out of the room, that alone was enough to decide him. "Fine, we'll stay for now—let the others go. But you're not taking hostages with you when you leave."

Jagger just gave an evil smile. "We'll see. You want to tell your friends out there that they've got people coming?"

Sherlock nodded and reached for the nearest phone. "Barnes? Sigerson. We've got hostages coming out. Two are staying behind, as am I. ETA on the van?" He listened for a moment and then hung up. "The van will be out front as soon as the rest of the hostages are in clear."

"Okay, people," Jagger said to the room. "Everybody out. Thank you for your business. Have a pleasant day. Now … _move_!" He fired his gun at the ceiling and, on a wave of fresh tears and hysterics, the hostages stumbled to their feet and towards the door, clearly expecting to be shot down before they left. Sherlock saw one girl pause as she walked past John, but she was hurried on her way by an older man.

Within five minutes, the bank was quiet again—three robbers, three hostages. John hadn't opened his eyes, which was making Sherlock worried. He'd made eye contact with Mycroft, though, who'd nodded in the direction of his umbrella.

The third robber had pulled Mycroft to his feet during the exodus and had thrust him into another chair by John's. Jagger pulled out a third for Sherlock, but he refused. "We're still negotiating. Why are you interested in these two men?"

"Let's just say it's a personal matter, and leave it at that."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't think so. My job is to make sure _all_ the hostages get out safely. I can't just write off two civilians just because you've taken a liking to them. Why don't you let them go and keep me instead?"

Jackson was shaking his head. "No, not gonna happen. This man owes me."

"No, I don't," John said. "Just because you were caught fair and square by Sherlock Holmes—working without me, I might add, which he did whenever he felt like it because he apparently thought nothing of leaving me behind even before he killed himself—doesn't mean I owe you anything. I'm just a doctor."

"I don't know about that, Watson," said Jagger. "I've heard stories that made you pretty bad-ass. Are you saying they were lies?"

"No," John said, finally opening his eyes, but not looking at Sherlock. "I don't know what stories you mean, but I'm not that man anymore. My best friend jumped off a building and might as well have killed me. These days, I'm just a doctor. I work at the hospital up the street, I live alone, and I walk with a cane. By my reckoning, that makes me pathetic, not bad-ass."

Sherlock tried not to flinch as he listened. He prided himself at telling when a person was lying or telling the truth, and there was no question John was telling the truth.

He'd known he'd hurt his friend, but hadn't realized how deeply.

He caught Mycroft watching him and blinked, uncertain what expression had just been on his face. He rallied, though. "Sherlock Holmes? What does he have to do with any of this?"

Jagger just looked at him. "The robbery? Nothing. But Michael Jackson here holds a grudge and it's just Watson's bad luck that he happened to be here. With his connections to the police, though, it makes him more valuable as a hostage, so that's all to the good."

"Connections to the police? And why are you calling him Watson?" Sherlock tried to make his voice as unthreatening as he could.

"Didn't you know? He _claims_ he's not trying to hide anything, but Dr. Hamish here is actually John Watson."

Sherlock gave a short laugh, ignoring the way the air was catching in his lungs, hating himself for what he was about to say. "And you think that will make the police out there appreciate his value more? After the way things ended with him and that detective? So far as I know, he's still a wanted man."

John closed his eyes again. "Those charges were dropped a long time ago. And anyway, all they wanted me for was for chinning the chief superintendent. Sherlock took me hostage in his escape and in light of the … the trauma … they dropped the charges. But that doesn't mean the police care two pegs for me these days. Other than stitching up accident victims, I haven't done anything worth noticing in years."

"Okay…," Jagger said, "But this is Holmes's brother."

Sherlock shrugged. "Again, just a civilian, so far as the police are concerned. Look at him. Does he look like he's ever done anything away from a desk in his life? He's the kind of man you want to do your taxes, maybe, but not exactly leverage in a hostage situation. No. Let the two of them go, and keep me."

"No!" Jackson shouted as Jagger stepped forward, gun pointing at Sherlock. "You're worthless to us—like you said, the police are more concerned about the civilians. If you get shot in the line of duty, you're just doing your job."

Sherlock tried not to react to John's flinch. He looked at the three men, mentally calculating risks and probabilities. "Let them go, and I can do you one better."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

#


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock took a breath. He knew it was risky, but there really was no other option, not if he wanted to be sure John (and Mycroft) got out safely. Not now this had changed from a bank robbery to a revenge-driven hostage situation. And, really, they had already recognized John and even with a disguise, Sherlock was standing right in front of them. Even allowing for the fact that he had solved the case without having met Coving in person, the man couldn't be _that_ much of an idiot, could he? Being assumed dead was only so much of a cover.

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

Jagger looked disgusted, as if he were furious that he was being toyed with. "What? Sherlock Holmes is dead!"

"That's what people had to think," Sherlock told him, "But I assure you, the man is alive and I can get him here … _if_ you let these two go."

#

"_I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself._"

Greg couldn't believe his ears. He had spent more of the last ten minutes than he liked trying to pull his jaw up from around his ankles. Sigerson's voice was just too familiar … all too damn heart-breakingly familiar. He had thought that maybe this was a third brother he hadn't known about, but no … now he was sure. This was Sherlock. A very not-dead Sherlock, bargaining to save John and Mycroft's lives.

He pulled his eyes away from the screen to look at Donovan, standing with her arms crossed, shaking her head. He stepped over to her. "You knew?"

"Since just before I called you. I couldn't say anything, but you needed to know. I mean, if the Fr… I mean, if he's still alive. You deserved to know."

"And he just … shared this secret with you?" He couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.

She shook her head. "Not until I confronted him with it, after I heard him speaking to Watson … but that's suspicious, too. Everybody here calls him Dr. Hamish, like he was undercover. Do you suppose he knew?"

Greg turned back to the monitor, noting the lines of pain on John's face—pain not just from the blow to the head. "No. John didn't know. I bet nobody but his brother knew."

"His brother?" She sounded surprised, and Greg tried to resist rolling his eyes. For a detective, Donovan spent far too much time wearing blinders, so busy being suspicious, she didn't pay attention. (Just like Sherlock had always said, damn him for being so insufferably right all the time.) "Yes, Donovan. The other hostage. The one who just _said_ that he's Sherlock's brother."

"He meant that?" He was gratified at the stunned look on her face. "I didn't know."

"Apparently there are a lot of things you didn't know, Donovan. Haven't you learned not to jump to conclusions yet?"

And, with one eye on the monitor, he walked back to where Anthea was standing with what looked to be a very well-trained bodyguard. "What can I do to help?"

#

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

That sentence, said in Sherlock's calm, long-missed voice, sent a chill up John's spine even as his head swum. Wasn't that what he'd hoped for? Asked for in the cemetery two years ago? What he'd been hoping for today, ever since he first heard Sigerson's voice?

But, like this?

No, this was a nightmare, John thought, eyes still closed. Sherlock was just going to get himself killed again, because even if he wasn't dead now he was going to be when he made these angry men even angrier, and jeez, really, how hard had he been hit on the head? It should be easier to think than this by now. All he was sure of was that Sherlock being dead was bad enough—he didn't think he could bear to see him die all over again.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's statement caused an uproar. "What? Sherlock Holmes is dead!"

Sigerson … no,_Sherlock_'s voice was calm when he answered. "That's what people had to think. But I assure you, the man is alive and I can get him here … _if_ you let these two go."

John felt a gun nudge him in the shoulder and opened one eye to see Jackson right in front of him. "Well. You tell us. Is he alive?"

How was he supposed to answer that, John wondered. Until this morning, he would have had no doubt. Even an hour ago, he could have bluffed his way through. But right now? With a concussion and a living, breathing Sherlock standing mere feet away from him? He didn't know what to do. He couldn't _think_. (Maybe he should have taken up the violin?)

"If he's alive, he never told me so," John said as clearly as he could. "But then, he obviously didn't tell me everything. I'll say this, though. If anybody could have faked his own death, it would have been Sherlock Holmes."

"But he didn't tell you? Doesn't sound like he trusted you much after all, Watson," Jagger said with a sneer.

John pulled a face. "No, it doesn't does it?"

That really was the telling point, wasn't it? Here was living proof that Sherlock really hadn't. And, bracing himself, he lifted his eyes to look at Siger … Sherlock.

The hair color was different, the eyes had contacts, and there was something different about the shape of the face … but his breath still caught as he stared at the man. That look of anguish about the eyes? Just like that moment at the pool. "But that's the question, isn't it? Because if he didn't trust me, then maybe he is alive and never bothered to tell me. Like I said, these days, I'm just a doctor."

He saw the tiny blink—the Sherlock version of a flinch—at the bitterness John couldn't keep from his voice. Because, yes, right now? He was bitter. He was furious. It wasn't bad enough that Sherlock had lied these last two years, now he had to rub his face in it? Torment him while he was tied, bleeding, to a chair? What had he ever done to the universe that he deserved this?

Jagger, though, was sneering as he turned to Mycroft. "Well, you're his brother. You tell us—is he still alive?"

"My brother and I were never all that close," Mycroft said smoothly.

Stalling for time, John thought, recognizing a Holmsian stonewall, and so he laughed and joined in. "That's for sure. They hated each other. Sherlock would have kept this from Mycroft from sheer spite."

"Childishness," Mycroft corrected.

"True. He liked to play games—and faking his own death? It sounds like something he would do."

John was watching Sherlock and trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding, making the throbbing in his head all the louder, but bringing a clearing surge of adrenalin with it. He kept his hands moving, too, working away at the phone cord that held him in place. He didn't know what Sherlock had planned, but there was something … even after two years, he could tell the man had a trick, a plan, and John needed to be ready.

"All right you two, enough," Jagger snarled, turning to Sherlock. "These two don't exactly seem convinced that Sherlock Holmes is alive. Why should I believe you?"

Sherlock gazed at him, looking altogether unperturbed. "For the same reason that I know you're here for the gems in David Arnett's safety deposit box. That you've only been out of prison two months, _Mr. Smithson_, and are already having trouble functioning in the real world. You hope to take the money from the gems to get away to someplace quiet, with less chaos. Unfortunately for you, you've chosen the wrong men to help you—Mike Coving here is a hothead who will never be able to keep this quiet—assuming he doesn't blow the entire thing with his temper. And your third partner over there? I haven't identified him yet, but I can tell that he's a professional—more so than you, I'm afraid. He has no plans to share the gems with either of you and plans on killing you both as soon as you've made your getaway. I confess I'm not entirely sure why he's let things get side-tracked with Coving's vendetta against Sherlock Holmes, but there's not much he can do while still trapped in a bank surrounded by the police, so no doubt he's just patiently waiting his chance. I'd be careful how deeply I slept tonight, if I were you."

Jagger looked stunned. "How could you…?"

"Because, Mr. Smithson, I _am_ Sherlock Holmes."

John couldn't help it. He met Sherlock's eyes and said, "That was brilliant."

"Really?" Sherlock's face brightened, even as his eyes narrowed with warning as he looked sideways at a dumbfounded Jagger. "Usually you miss the subtext," he said, lightly accenting the last word.

John drew a quick, deep breath. "You mean … like when we were on that case with that Woman?"

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly like that. You've been known to miss things, John. I've always trusted your intentions, but. …"

"My intentions? What the hell does that have to do with anything?" John said, letting his anger build. Sherlock wanted a fight? That was just perfect. He'd be happy to give him a fight. "You _lied_ to me, Sherlock."

"I had to, John. It was for your own good."

"My own good? How was watching my best friend jump off the side of a building for my own good, Sherlock?"

His hands were free now as everyone watched the reunion unfold. Suddenly the tension in the room had nothing to do with robbers or guns or concussions … it was all about two men fighting over a two-year old deception.

And, well, a two-_minute_ old deception, because while John wasn't sure what why Sherlock needed this distraction, he knew there was a reason. He could see it in the way he was balancing on the balls of his feet, he could feel it in his very bones as he slipped comfortably into the role of Sherlock Holmes' assistant, friend, sidekick, partner. Sherlock needed a distraction, and picking a fight with John was it. For once, John was entirely in agreement, too. A chance to actually yell at this frustrating, brilliant man he was so grateful to see and yet so very angry with? All he needed was his cue…

"Really, John, I told you that was a magic trick," Sherlock said with a meaningful look. "Certainly nothing like that case with the Vatican Cameos."

And there it was.

"Why, you…" John launched himself out of his chair to tackle Sherlock, shouting abuse, startling everyone. The robbers had been so involved in watching them, they had relaxed their guard, so John's sudden move took them by surprise, guns lax in their hands.

As John punched Sherlock, Mycroft tipped his chair over, pushing it against Jackson's legs and causing him to stumble as Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and used the handle to trip him and then pluck away his gun, sending it skittering across the floor. Meanwhile, Sherlock staggered artistically under John's assault and fell into Jagger, knocking him to the ground as he yelled at them to stop.

Sting was the only robber who kept his head. "That's enough!" he shouted, pointing the gun at Sherlock (or trying to, as he and John rolled on the floor) but it was already too late. A team of men in black were already storming into the room, taking advantage of the distraction to subdue all three robbers.

John knew that. He heard them, but just then, he couldn't think. He was unaware of anything but the fact that Sherlock was there, living and breathing, under his hands while John felt a hurricane of emotions—anger, relief, frustration, joy. He'd never felt such a maelstrom of feelings—all strong, all valid, all contradictory—just like the (living, breathing) idiot on the floor underneath him.

"John. John! You can stop now." Sherlock's voice was breathless and strained, with a tone that John had never heard before.

"I've told you, Sherlock. I was a soldier, remember?" John gritted out as he struggled to get the upper hand, to pin this frustrating genius of a madman to the ground so he could tell him exactly what he thought about this deception, this betrayal.

But Sherlock was strong and slippery and had obviously learned a thing or two while he was away. "Yes, I know, you had bad days, but John … you're bleeding."

The concern in his voice swept over John and melted away the familiar adrenalin, so that suddenly John felt every minute of this very long day—every hour of the last two years of totally unnecessary grief. With a grunt, Sherlock gave one last roll so that he had John pinned, the victor in a wrestling match that John was never going to win. No matter what he did, Sherlock was always going to beat him.

He lay there, panting for a minute as his head throbbed and his heart ached. "Why, Sherlock?" He finally asked, hating the way his voice broke, hating how pathetic he sounded.

"Moriarty was going to kill you, John."

"Yes, I know that," John said, fighting the familiar surge of frustration at Sherlock speaking as if he were an idiot. "But why didn't you tell me? Afterward? It's been two years—surely you could have found the time?"

Sherlock sat back on his heels, oblivious to the fact that the two of them were lying in the middle of the bank lobby, surrounded by commandos and police officers, most of whom were trying not to stare. "I thought you'd be better off without me," he finally said.

John closed his eyes again. How could anyone be so brilliant and so stupid at the same time? Luckily for Sherlock, he was just too tired to argue at the moment, and so he said, "Well, that just makes you an idiot then, doesn't it?"

Pulling himself to his feet with the help of Sherlock's warm (alive) hand, John held on for a moment, soaking in the solid pulse beating beneath his fingers. "We're not done talking about his, mind you. But … I'm glad you're alive."

"I could say the same," Sherlock said, eyes scanning him in that long-familiar, long-missed way. Then he nodded, eyes concerned as he called over a medic. That probably wasn't a bad idea, John thought, feeling the warm, sticky trickle of blood running by his ear. Now that the adrenalin was gone, he felt wobbly on his feet—though both legs felt equally solid (un-solid?) under him. Limp's gone, he thought, but still needed Sherlock's wiry strength supporting his elbow to move to a chair so he could be patched up. This adrenalin crash was going to be bad, he thought. He'd been running on nerves and stress for far too long.

He sat quietly, grateful for the chance while the activity around them wound down. Before long, he was holding an ice pack to his bandaged head and feeling grateful that his ribs werenn't cracked.

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off him the whole time, and after a while, the surveillance grew too much even for John. "Go ahead, say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're trying to hold in. You're going to burst."

A flicker of … something … crossed his face, but before he could say anything, there was scrape of a shoe behind them. "Well, this is all too familiar a sight, though it's been a while."

John looked up, surprised. "Greg? What are … When did you get here?"

"An hour or two ago—just ahead of the press. Somehow, word leaked out that not only was Sherlock Holmes' former blogger being held hostage in a bank robbery, but there was a rumor that the man himself was alive and there. You should brace yourselves—it's crazy out there."

Greg looked over at Sherlock. "Where the hell have you been?"

John smiled. "If you're going to punch him, now's the time, Greg."

He just shrugged. "Nah, not with so many reporters right outside the door. I'll wait until I've heard his lame excuses later."

Sherlock just looked hurt. "I would have thought saving your life was an adequate excuse, Inspector?"

"For the jump—which I'm very curious about, by the way—sure, maybe. But not for the two years of silence since then. Look at poor John, here. You've only been back for a couple hours and he already needs medical attention."

John laughed but Sherlock only sniffed. "It's hardly my fault, Lestrade. If he had gotten into the car in the first place instead of coming into the bank, none of this would have happened."

"So, it's my fault then?" John asked, heaving himself to his feet and heading toward the door. "Your resurrection wasn't exactly on my schedule, you know. I was supposed to be at work this afternoon, and I never did get any of that pizza."

He had just stepped into the doorway when a voice outside shouted "Gun!" and a bullet came flying through the door.

#


	7. Chapter 7

Greg didn't wait for the All Clear to sound before he was through the door, bullet-proof vest a familiar weight on his shoulders. Anything to get away from the crowd that had gathered as word spread of the not-dead, not-a-fraud-after-all detective possibly being there himself. (How word had spread so fast, he had no idea. Twitter, probably.)

No, he was glad to get into the bank, even if the hard part had already been done. The men Anthea had sent in already had everything under control. The three robbers were being cuffed and Mycroft Holmes was standing talking calmly to the leader.

And there to the side, John Watson being patched up while Sherlock Holmes watched on.

Because, yes, it really was Sherlock Holmes. Greg had been watching the CCTV video since he'd arrived but seeing him in live, 3D Technicolor? Hell, Sherlock Holmes really was alive, even if his hair was too short and the wrong color.

He exhaled, only then realizing that he'd been holding his breath. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, he thought. Together again. That was a sight he'd never thought to see, and his eyes prickled a bit as he watched the two men watching each other.

Oh, there were changes. John was thinner, more worn than he had been (though some of that could be attributed to the head wound). Sherlock almost looked like another person—different hair, different eyes, different face—but his concern for his friend was familiar and warming. Greg had never seen Sherlock look that concerned over anybody but John Watson. That alone would have convinced him this wasn't a ghost, even without the familiar voice making excuses.

Greg felt a smile pulling at his lips. Oh, he wanted explanations, and part of him was furious at Sherlock's deception, but … infuriating and maddening as he was, the realization that Sherlock Holmes was alive was enough to restore faith in an otherwise mad world. Because even if Sherlock brought his own special kind of insanity to things, Greg had always thought the world was better (if more frustrating) with him in it.

Not only that, he couldn't wait to see Sally's face.

He walked over. "Well, this is all too familiar a sight, though it's been a while."

And, lord, it had been, he thought as the three of them fell into the easy pattern of banter they had perfected years ago. He was furious with Sherlock—he was—but he couldn't help but notice how worn to the bone he was. As hard as the last two years had been on the rest of them, they'd obviously been hard for Sherlock, too, and Greg couldn't quite bring himself to yell at him. Not yet, anyway.

He could hear the press calling from outside the door, trying to get Sherlock's attention and just shook his head as he followed them toward the door.

But then he heard Sally's voice yelling "Gun!" at the top of her lungs and he didn't even think, but dove toward the doorway to tackle Sherlock, knocking both him and John to the side, just inside the door.

A _zing_ of a bullet sounded as he felt a thump at his waist, and then another at his calf as he pulled his legs forward, out of sight. "Are you two all right?" he asked, panting. "Christ, Sherlock, things were nice and quiet before you showed up. Coming back from the dead doesn't mean you have to bring hell with you, you know."

"That's what I said," John answered with a small giggle. "I was having a perfectly normal day before you Holmeses showed up."

Sherlock made a face. "Yes, yes, but have either of you noticed that someone is shooting at you?"

"At us? I thought he'd be shooting at you, Sherlock."

"To my knowledge, everyone who wished me dead is currently detained or no longer a problem," Sherlock said.

"I'm not going to ask what you mean by that," Greg said, crawling forward, closer to the window. He could hear people scrambling behind him, but there was nothing on his radio. He lifted it to his mouth. "Donovan? What's going on out there?"

"Donovan?" John said, eyebrows raised. "I thought she didn't work with you any more, Greg? In fact … what are you doing here? Not that I'm not glad, but it's rather outside your … Christ, you're bleeding."

I'm what? Greg followed John's eyes to his leg and remembered that second _zing_. "Oh," was all he managed to say as John sat forward and pulled his trouser leg out of the way to take a look.

"It doesn't look bad. Are you sure you weren't hit anywhere else?" John was suddenly _there_ and focused—the army doctor coming to the fore and pushing aside petty, personal concerns like concussions or bruised ribs.

"I think the vest deflected one," Greg told him, suddenly feeling weak even as John grew more alert. It's all in your head, he told himself, but now that he realized, his leg was starting to _hurt_. "I've never been shot before. I didn't realize how much it hurt."

John was pressing a handkerchief against his leg. "You call this being shot? Barely a graze. You'll be fine."

Greg looked at Sherlock, sitting uncharacteristically quiet. "Anything you want to tell us, Sherlock?"

"I thought I got them all," he said in a small voice. "I thought it was safe."

John's hands paused. "Safe for what, Sherlock?"

"Safe to come back. I must have missed … Moran!" He pressed his hand against his ear and then pulled out his earpiece in disgust. "It's Sebastian Moran, it has to be. He uses a custom-made, long-distance sniper rifle, which means he's probably farther away than you're looking. That's how he got Adair last night."

"Wait, Ronald Adair?" Greg asked, hissing at the pain in his leg. "That's my case."

"Yes, of course, Inspector. I thought that was obvious. But he was supposed to be at Baker Street, but … why is he here?"

"Adair was supposed to be at Baker Street?"

"No, _Moran_. The trap was perfect and Mycroft's men were … oh, of course," Sherlock breathed, glancing toward the door and then glaring at his brother on the other side of the lobby. "The press. They spread the word that John was here at the bank. That would have drawn Moran away from London."

John was wrapping Greg's leg with a roll of bandage one of Mycroft's men had tossed over. "Me? Why would a sniper care where I was?"

"Because he was the one who was supposed to shoot you if I didn't jump," Sherlock said. "He's had his eye on you ever since. That's why I couldn't let you know—either of you—that I was alive. Not until it was safe. But now he's slipped through Mycroft's fingers and he's out there. It's not over."

Greg had never heard Sherlock's voice so uncertain.

#

John had only ever heard Sherlock sound like that once before, beside a pool mere seconds after seeing him, before he realized that John was wearing a bomb. He hadn't wanted ever to hear Sherlock sound so uncertain again.

He tied off the bandage on Greg's leg—it would do for now—and then thought hard about where the shots had come from, and how far away the sniper probably was. It wasn't like he had a sniper rifle of his own to shoot, and God knew there was a difference between making a shot across a street and across a city block … but this was Madthwaite-on-the-Sea. The possible options for a sniper were few and far between. Main Street was just one, long thoroughfare running alongside the ocean, after all. There were no hills, no trees. Nothing for cover. If the man wanted to see inside the bank, he had to be in front of the bank.

In fact, thinking about it, there was only one place …

John took one more look at the slightly lost look on Sherlock's face and then saw one of the robber's rifles kicked up against the wall, waiting for proper disposal. He knew Mycroft had a team here, he knew the police were just outside and that they were all probably several steps ahead of injured-civilian-hostage-with-a-limp John Watson, but it's not like Madthwaite-on-the-Sea's police force were used to dealing with armed snipers, and most of Mycroft's men were stuck in here with him.

He leaned forward. "Can I borrow your helmet?" he asked Greg, undoing the strap without waiting for an answer. Sherlock was blinking back to his usual, sharp self, but John didn't have time for that, and he certainly wasn't going to wait until Sherlock started complaining or criticizing. "Good," he told him. "Make yourself useful. When I tell you, lift this above the window sill and hope he shoots at it."

And, without giving either of them a chance to protest, John crawled toward to the door on his elbows, just like his old army days and then stood, groaning a bit, to put his back to the wall. He paused to mentally map the street, thinking of the exact location of the building across the way, remembering the sign for an empty office space for lease that had been displayed for the last several weeks.

Shutting out the sounds of protest he heard from behind him, the sounds of chaos and shouted orders outside the door … and most importantly, the pounding headache that was threatening to blur his vision … he focused. He blocked everything out and just concentrated on the fact that he had a job to do—and the sooner the better.

Besides, he was tired of waiting, tired of being passive, left behind.

He gripped the rifle, getting a feel for it in his hands, and gave Sherlock a nod. Then several things happened at once. Sherlock raised the helmet above the window sill, where it was promptly shot. At the same time, John pivoted around the doorway, smoothly taking aim on the not-so-empty office across the street and firing just past the muzzle showing in the barely-cracked open window.

A roaring silence in his ears, echoed by screams outside the door.

But no more shots.

He slumped back against the wall and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

He hadn't even realized he'd closed his eyes until he was startled by the sound of applause coming from the soldiers (officers? agents?) around the room. He met Greg's stunned eyes. "I knew you were a good shot, John, but…"

"That was amazing." Sherlock looked stunned. "You do realize you just killed a man in sight of the entire British press corp, don't you?"

"Um…"

#

Sherlock was speechless. What had just happened?

He could hardly think of all the things that had gone wrong today. First, John had insisted on coming into this godforsaken bank instead of getting into the car where he would have been safe while Mycroft's trap closed. Then, Moran had slipped out of Mycroft's trap altogether and ended up here because, of course, the press had spread the word that _John_ was here.

And then John … miraculous, always-surprising Dr. John Hamish Watson … had saved the day by shooting Moran.

How was that even possible? The man had a concussion. He was still reeling from learning Sherlock had faked his death two years ago. He probably hadn't even fired a gun in years, much less under anything resembling combat conditions. And yet he had done everything perfectly.

The man was a wonder. "That was amazing," Sherlock said, staring at John with awe. Because that was _John_ all over, ignoring threats to himself to save others, regardless of the … oh no. "You do realize you just killed a man in sight of the entire British press corp, don't you?"

John's face froze for a moment, then he shrugged. "Maybe Mycroft can get me a good lawyer. The important thing is nobody else was hurt. Are we sure we're in the clear this time?"

One of Mycroft's men came up and all but saluted as he addressed John. "Dr. Watson. Excellent shooting. Our team has secured the area, including the office across the street." He looked over at Sherlock. "Sebastian Moran is dead, sir."

Sherlock felt a wave of relief at the news. At least things weren't that bad. Yes, Lestrade had been shot in the leg, and John had a concussion, but this could have been so much worse.

Which, of course, was the moment that Detective Barnes came in, a solemn look on his face. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hamish, but I'm afraid … you're under arrest."

"What?" Sherlock asked. "For what possible reason?"

"Murder, Mr. Sigerson … or whatever your name is. He just shot a man in front of all of us with a no-doubt illegal weapon."

"He just _saved_ all of us," Sherlock spat out, "Using a gun left lying on the floor. It's not like he carried it in!"

"I'm sure the extenuating circumstances will be examined, sir, but for now, my duty is clear." Barnes looked at John. "I really am sorry."

Again, Sherlock was left speechless. This was a disaster! He looked at Lestrade, who just shook his head. "Not my call, Sherlock. I can't override local law enforcement. I'm not even supposed to be here."

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He had looked forward to this day for two years, and nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. All he knew was that it was his fault John was in this position. If he had taken care of Moran like he'd meant to, John would never have needed to shoot anyone.

He looked at John—so irritatingly stoic and calm—and tried to think what to do. They would get him out, obviously. Yes, he had shot a man, but it had been self-defense. It was just … this shouldn't be happening!

Be calm, he told himself. He reminded himself of the virtues of patience while dealing with the simple-minded (everyone but John … and Mycroft, he supposed). He thought about all the times biting his tongue had actually turned out to be useful these last two years. This could all be fixed, just as soon as they got John out of … jail.

He could feel his face crumple at the thought, and despite all his years of experience and independence, found himself looking at his brother. He wasn't sure what expression was on his face, but within moments, Mycroft had crossed the room. "What's the problem?"

"They're arresting John," Sherlock said, afraid he sounded like a whiny child whose favorite toy was being taken away. Make them stop, Mycroft, he felt like begging, wanting his big brother to fix things like he had when they were children.

Mycroft took in the scene with a glance. "Really? And what possible reason could you have for that, Detective Inspector?"

Barnes looked at Mycroft, taking in the custom suit but missing the air of authority altogether. "He just killed a man, sir."

"Yes," Mycroft said, "Taking out a sniper—one who had just shot a police officer—before he could do any more damage. Last time I checked, that came down under the 'heroic' end of the spectrum rather than the 'criminal' end."

Barnes gave an uncomfortable shrug. "That may be so, but the law is the law. With the best intentions, Dr. Hamish could have hurt someone. There is a reason we don't allow vigilante justice. That's what the legal system is for."

"Indeed," Mycroft smiled. "However, I believe you'll agree that certain members of society have a duty to help those in need, and oft times that must be done with a weapon. Dr. Watson, here, served in the army, you know, and was a marksman, well trained to do exactly that."

"That might have been true, but…"

"Which is also why Dr. Watson holds a license to use a gun to protect Queen and Country when necessary."

"He does?" Barnes said.

"I do?" John echoed.

Mycroft just smiled. "Of course, John. You have since the night you moved in with Sherlock, did I never tell you? I didn't want to burden you, and I knew you would never abuse the privilege, so I felt it wasn't necessary to say anything, but yes. Going on four years, now—not counting your time in Afghanistan and elsewhere, of course."

Sherlock found himself beaming just like when Mycroft had coaxed his kitten down from a tree when he was four. When this was over, he would do three—no, four!—cases for Mycroft with no complaints whatsoever. (Or not excessive complaints, at least.)

"And who, exactly, are you?" Barnes was asking.

Mycroft pulled his own ID from his pocket and smiled gently as the man boggled at his credentials. "Mycroft Holmes. And …" he turned to Anthea, who handed a laminated card to him. "You'll see Dr. Watson's paperwork is in order as well. You'll want to keep this in your pocket from here on, John."

John just nodded blankly and stared at the card once Barnes passed it over. Sure enough, it was dated to the night he'd shot the cabbie and signed by … he looked up.

"Her Majesty is really quite grateful for your service, John," Mycroft told him gently. "Now, are we done here? Detective Inspector Lestrade looks like he could use some additional medical attention. Dr. Watson was working under less than ideal circumstances earlier, after all."

Sherlock watched his brother glance out the window at the crowd of reporters and frown. "I believe we'll take the back exit. All those flashing lights can't possibly be good for Dr. Watson's concussion."

And away he swept toward the back of the building, a bemused John helping Lestrade, as Sherlock paused for one last comment. "Excellent work today, Barnes. I told you it would all work out in the end."

"Are you really …?"

"Sherlock Holmes? Of course. I promise you, though, my credentials were real, too. After all, who do you think gave them to me? Good day," and he turned to follow the others, feeling lighter and happier than he had in years.

#

* * *

NOTE: There's an epilogue to come-I was going to wait until the whole thing was done and include it with this chapter, but decided not to make you wait longer to see how that cliffhanger was going to resolve itself. (You're welcome.)


	8. Epilogue

Hours later, the four of them were at John's cottage. Lestrade sat in John's favorite chair with his foot up on the ottoman. Mycroft sat in an armchair, savoring a drink, while John sagged into the couch as Sherlock perched on the other end. John felt both more exhausted and more exhilarated than he had in years.

The table was strewn with the remains of take-out Chinese and, even if this hadn't been what Mycroft and Sherlock had had in mind when the day started, this was the closest thing to perfection John had known since losing Sherlock at St. Barts.

Well, other than the exhaustion. They had decided not to go to the hospital when they'd left the bank (managing to avoid the press as they went). John had said he had the supplies he needed to stitch up Greg's leg and all of them were eager to avoid attracting any unnecessary attention—especially considering how much they had gotten already. They had considered stopping at the hospital lot to get John's car, but there had been too much press waiting outside.

No, the cottage was ideal. It hadn't been discovered by reporters yet, either. John had ushered everyone in and gone for his medkit, assuring Greg that he was definitely steady enough to stitch him up. ("Really, the blurry vision is barely even an issue, Greg.")

Barnes and Donovan had shown up half an hour later to take statements—intimidated enough by Mycroft's ID that they hadn't required them all to come to the station. It was awkward, seeing Donovan again, but she was relatively subdued "You did what you had to, I suppose," she said to Sherlock.

"Isn't that all any of us can do, Donovan?"

She just shrugged, looking at John making tea in the kitchen and Greg, sprawled exhausted on the couch. "They could have been killed, you know."

"Yes, I know," he said quietly.

"That's not exactly unusual for any of us, is it, Sally?" John asked, handing her a mug. "The important thing is that we watch out for each other. Even if it is from a distance. You might not like him, but Sherlock has always had my back—and he's got Greg's, too."

The officers didn't stay long after taking their statements, which was a relief. It had been uncomfortably awkward. Now that his "true identity" was out (making John feel like a superhero sidekick), the local police force he had chatted and joked with as they'd come into his A&E were suddenly awkward, staring at their shoes, not meeting his eye. They'd heard stories, obviously, about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and didn't quite know how to tie that to the quiet Dr. Hamish they already knew.

At some point, Anthea had arranged for John's car to be picked up, and the driver had brought back an assortment of Chinese food. Anthea, Michaels, and whoever else was still here kept to the kitchen while John and his guests sprawled in the living room.

Well, John and Greg sprawled. Between the injuries and the emotional stress, they were both exhausted, while Sherlock just sat and tried not to stare. Or so John supposed, because there _was_ rather a lot of staring, but it was followed by frequent glances away.

John was slightly surprised that Mycroft stuck around—didn't the man have a country to run, or something? And yet, every time John had looked, he was eating Chinese food with perfect chopstick skills, just watching his brother. He supposed that he had missed him, too.

Really, there was a lot of _looking_ going on, as if none of them could quite believe that they were all together, that the ordeal of the last two years was over. Sherlock had explained, earlier, about Moriarty's ultimatum and why he had jumped. He told them why he'd been gone so long, and apologized for causing them pain.

John still wasn't sure how he felt about that. He was beyond glad that his friend was not actually dead, but so much of his life had changed in the last 25-months … he wasn't quite sure how this was going to … well, it was going to change everything. He knew that. He just wasn't sure exactly how.

One thing was certain—Sherlock Holmes would never move to Madthwaite-on-the-Sea. Knowing him, he probably expected John would quit his job and follow him back to London, no questions asked, but John wasn't sure he was ready for that. Not yet, at least.

The four of them had talked tonight, each telling bits of their lives the last two years, now that secrets could be told, and now John was ready for bed. He mentally tallied his beds—his guest room could sleep two, but he couldn't imagine any of them sharing. Greg deserved a bed, though, and looking at Sherlock, worn to the bone, so did he. If Mycroft took the couch…

#

He wasn't exactly sure when he drifted off, but John woke suddenly, with a gasp and a stifled shout.

He was still on the couch, but laying across the length of it now, with an afghan tucked around him and a pillow under his head. Someone had pulled off his shoes at some point and for a moment he wondered—he hadn't thought he'd been that tired. It made him feel uncommonly cared for, and he lay there in the dark, trying to remember the last time anyone had looked after him.

He turned to look at the fire, banked down to glowing embers as he inhaled-exhaled steadily, trying to get his heart rate back to where it should be.

When the quiet voice asked, "Nightmare?" he should have jumped, but instead the inquiry just added to his feeling of comfort, of being watched over.

"Yeah," was all he said, and concentrated on breathing. After a time, he said, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep."

John peered across the room, making out the familiar, long-missed silhouette in the armchair. "You must be tired, too," was all he said.

A breath. "More than you can know, I think, but my nerves don't allow me to sleep much—they've been on guard for too long."

"And you had such an easy time sleeping, before," John said, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Yes, well, there has to be _something_ I'm not good at, John. I am human, after all."

Now John actually laughed. "I don't think that would exactly appear at the top of your list. Not since you were a baby, anyway—only new parents care about how good you are at sleeping."

"Maybe." Sherlock's voice was solemn. "What would you consider my most egregious faults, John?"

John started to make a flippant response, but hesitated. There was something … lost … in Sherlock's voice. He wasn't used to hearing him so uncertain, and angry though part of him was, he didn't have it in him to cause him any more hurt, not tonight. "I'd say vanity, you peacock, but that's not quite right … You're always so sure that you're right and the rest of us aren't, you don't give us a chance to help. You just go off on your own and leave us…"

"…Behind. I know." Sherlock sat quietly for a few moments. "You do understand, though, don't you? I truly did not have a choice."

With a sigh, John stood up and moved to the kitchen, reaching for the kettle and filling it by the nightlight on the stove. He got down two mugs and measured out milk and sugar, plopping in two teabags before he answered. He turned to Sherlock, leaning back against the counter, trying to find comfort in the anonymous dark. "I do understand that … that _at the time_ you had no choice. I understand that your intentions were the best—heroic, even, if you'll allow it. But you still left us behind, Sherlock."

"I know, and I am sorry, John."

"I know," John echoed, pouring hot water into the mugs. "Where are the others?"

"Lestrade is in your room and Mycroft in the guest room. Anthea and the others left … sometime," Sherlock said with a careless wave of the hand.

John nodded. They stood quietly for a bit and then John fished a spoon from a drawer to scoop out the tea bags and picked up his mug with a nod toward the other and then headed back to the living room.

He sat back down and pulled the afghan over his legs, cupping the warm mug in his hands as he waited to see where Sherlock would chose to sit. After a moment's hesitation, he came and sat on the couch as well. John nodded and held out the end of the afghan. The room was chilly in the early Spring night.

They sat companionably, sipping their tea. "I could have helped, you know," John said after a while. "I mean, I know you couldn't tell me right away, and you needed me to be some weird kind of decoy for you, but … would it really have made a difference if I had left London to go help you instead of coming here?"

A sigh. "It wasn't a risk I was willing to take, but, believe me, John. There was nothing I would have welcomed more."

"I'm just saying … I could have helped. I was useful today, after all. Who knows? If you had taken me with you, you might have finished all this and been back to Baker Street months ago."

"I've been back less than 24 hours and you've got a concussion, bruised ribs, and were nearly shot by a sniper," Sherlock said, voice hesitant. "The cost if you had come with me would likely have been much higher."

"I pay my own debts, Sherlock, and I owed Moriarty, too."

"I know, but this? This was my debt, not yours."

"I thought we were friends?" John sad. "Friends help friends, remember?"

"One of the last things you said to me," Sherlock's voice was soft, and John winced, remembering what he'd said next.

"I never thought you were a machine, you know."

A shrug, tugging briefly at the afghan. "You didn't say anything I didn't deserve. At that moment, I needed you to think that. It's not your fault."

"I still shouldn't have said it," John told him. "You don't know how I've regretted that."

"No more than I've regretted making you watch, John. You weren't supposed to be back from Baker Street that quickly, but once you were there … I couldn't let you get any closer. I … I heard you, you know, saying I was your friend. I…"

His voice broke there and John just waited, soaking in the warmth of the tea, the afghan, and of having his best friend sitting beside him once more. "We both said things we shouldn't. Let's just … concentrate on the fact that now we have the chance to do better."

Sherlock nodded, and the two friends sat, shoulder to shoulder, sipping their tea and watching as the early light moved in, until the room was filled with the golden promise of a brand-new day.

THE END.

#

Notes: (I'm not altogether happy with this ending, but hope it meets your approval!)


End file.
